


The Fault In Our Stars (Larry Stylinson Version)

by the1Dcupquake



Category: Larry Stylinson - Fandom, One Direction (Band), The Fault in Our Stars - John Green
Genre: M/M, based off of The Fault In Our Stars
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-20
Updated: 2015-06-21
Packaged: 2018-04-05 08:06:26
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4172244
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/the1Dcupquake/pseuds/the1Dcupquake
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Despite the tumor-shrinking medical miracle that has bought him a few years, Harry has never been anything but terminal, his final chapter inscribed upon diagnosis. But when a gorgeous plot twist named Louis Tomlinson suddenly appears at Cancer Kid Support Group, Harry's story is about to be completely rewritten.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter One

**Author's Note:**

> Just a Larry Stylinson version of The Fault In Our Stars. Hope you like it! :)

Late in the winter of my seventeenth year, my mother decided I was depressed, presumably because I rarely left the house, spent quite a lot of time in bed, read the same book over and over, ate infrequently, and devoted quite a bit of my abundant free time to thinking about death.  
Whenever you read a cancer booklet or website or whatever, they always list depression among the side effects of cancer. But, in fact, depression is not a side effect of cancer. Depression is a side effect of dying. (Cancer is also a side effect of dying. Almost everything is, really.) But my mum believed I required treatment, so she took me to see my Regular Doctor Jim, who agreed that I was veritably swimming in a paralyzing and totally clinical depression, and that therefore my meds should be adjusted and also I should attend a weekly Support Group.  
This Support Group featured a rotating cast of characters in various states of tumor-driven unwellness. Why did the cast rotate? A side effect of dying.  
The Support Group, of course, was depressing as hell. It met every Wednesday in the basement of a stone-walled Episcopal church shaped like a cross. We all sat in a circle right in the middle of the cross, where the two boards would have met, where the heart of Jesus would have been.  
I noticed this because Liam, the Support Group Leader and only person over 18 in the room, talked about the heart of Jesus every freaking meeting, all about how we, as young cancer survivors, were sitting right in Christ's very sacred heart and whatever.  
So here's how it went in God's heart: The six or seven or ten of us walked/wheeled in, grazed at a decrepit selection of cookies and lemonade, sat down in the Circle of Trust, and listened to Liam recount for the thousandth time his depressingly miserable life story - how he had cancer in his balls and they thought he was going to die but he didn't die and now here he is, a full-grown adult in a church basement in the 137th nicest city in America, divorced, addicted to video games, mostly friendless, eking out a meager living by his cancertastic past, slowly working his way toward a master's degree that will not improve his career prospects, waiting, as we all do, for the sword of Damocles to give him the relief that he escaped lo those many years ago when cancer took both of his nuts but spared what only the most generous soul would call his life.  
AND YOU TOO MIGHT BE SO LUCKY!  
Then we introduced ourselves: Name. Age. Diagnosis. And how we're doing today. I'm Harry, I'd say when they'd get to me. Sixteen. Thyroid originally but with an impressive and long-settled satellite colony in my lungs. And I'm doing okay.  
Once we got around the circle, Liam always asked if anyone wanted to share. And then began the circle jerk of support: everyone talking about fighting and battling and winning and shrinking and scanning. To be fair to Liam, he let us talk about dying, too. But most of them weren't dying. Most would live into adulthood, as Liam had.  
(Which meant there was quite a lot of competitiveness about it, with everybody wanting to beat not only cancer itself, but also the other people in the room. Like, I realize that this is irrational, but when they tell you that you have, say, a 20 percent chance of living five years, the math kicks in and you figure that's one in five....so you look around and think, as any healthy person would: I gotta outlast four of these bastards.)  
The only redeeming facet of Support Group was this kid named Niall, a baby-faced guy with blonde hair in a quiff.  
And his eyes were the problem. He had some fantastically improbable eye cancer. One eye had been cut out when he was a kid, and now he wore the kind of thick glasses that made his eyes (both the real one and the glass one) preternaturally huge, like his whole head was basically just this fake eye and this real blue eye staring at you. From what I could gather on the rare occasions when Niall shared with the group, a recurrence had place his remaining eye in mortal peril.  
Niall and I communicated almost exclusively through sighs. Each time someone discussed anticancer diets or snorting ground-up shark fin or whatever, he'd glance over at me and sigh ever so slightly. I'd shake my head microscopically and exhale in response.

So Support Group blew, and after a few weeks, I grew to be rather kicking-and-screaming about the whole affair. In fact, on the Wednesday I made the acquaintance of Louis Tomlinson, I tried my level best to get out of Support Group while sitting on the couch with my mum in the third leg of a twelve-hour marathon of the previous season of 'American Horror Story', which admittedly, I had already seen, but still.  
Me: "I refuse to attend Support Group."  
Mum: "One of the symptoms of depression is disinterest in activities."  
Me: "Please just let me watch 'American Horror Story'. It's an activity."  
Mum: "Television is a passivity."  
Me: "Ugh, Mum, please."  
Mum: "Harry, you're a teenager. You're not a little kid anymore. You need to make friends, get out of the house, and live your life."  
Me: "If you want me to be a teenager, don't send me to Support Group. Buy me a fake ID so I can go to clubs, drink vodka, and take pot."  
Mum: "You don't take pot, for starters."  
Me: "See, that's the kind of thing I'd know if you got me a fake ID."  
Mum: "You're going to Support Group."  
Me: "UGGGGGGGGGGGGG."  
Mum: "Harry, you deserve a life."  
That shut me up, although I failed to see how attendance at Support Group met the definition of life. Still, I agreed to go - after negotiating the right to record the 1.5 episodes of AHS I'd be missing.  
I went to Support Group for the same reason that I'd once allowed nurses with a mere eighteen months of graduate education to poison me with exotically named chemicals: I wanted to make my parents happy. There is only one thing in this world shittier than biting it from cancer when you're sixteen, and that's having a kid who bites it from cancer.

Mum pulled into the circular driveway behind the church at 4:56. I pretended to fiddle with my oxygen tank for a second just to kill time.  
"Do you want me to carry it in for you?"  
"No, it's fine," I said. The cylindrical green tank only weighed a few pounds, and I had this little steel cart to wheel it around behind me. It delivered two liters of oxygen to me each minute through a cannula, a transparent tube that split just beneath my neck, wrapped behind my ears, and then reunited in my nostrils. The contraption was necessary because my lungs sucked at being lungs.  
"I love you," she said as I got out.  
"You too, Mum. See you at six."  
"Make friends!" she said throught the rolled-down window as I walked away.  
I didn't want to take the elevator because taking the elevator is a Last Days kind of activity at Support Group, so I took the stairs. I grabbed a cookie and poured some lemonade into a Dixie cup and then turned around.  
A boy was staring at me.  
I was quite sure I'd never seen him before. Shorter than me, obviously, he had scruffy stubble on his face. Light brown hair, feathery and wispy. He looked my age, maybe a year older, and he sat with his tailbone against the edge of the chair, his posture aggressively poor, one hand half in a pocket of dark skinny jeans. He was wearing a pair of black Vans.  
I looked away, suddenly conscious of my myriad insuffiencies. I was wearing old black skinny jeans, which had once been tight but now sagged in weird places, and a T-shirt avertising a band I didn't even like anymore. Also my hair: I had dark brown shoulder-length curly/wavy hair, and I hadn't even bothered to, like, brush it. Furthermore, I had ridiculously fat chipmunked cheeks, a side effect of treatment. I looked like a normally proportioned person with a balloon for a head. This was not even to mention the cankle situation. And yet - I cut a glance to him, and his eyes were still on me.  
It occurred to me why they call it eye contact.  
I walked into the circle and sat down next to Niall, two seats away from the boy. I glanced again. He was still watching me.  
Look, let me just say it: He was hot. A nonhot boy stares at you relentlessly and it is, at best, awkward and, at worst, a form of assault. But a hot boy....well.  
I pulled out my phone and clicked it so it would display the time: 4:59. The circle filled in with the unlucky twelve-to-seventeens, and then Liam started us out with the serenity prayer : 'God, grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change the things I can, and the wisdom to know the difference'. The guy was still staring at me. I felt rather blushy.  
Finally, I decided that the proper strategy was to stare back. So I looked him over as Liam acknowledge for the thousandth time his ball-lessness etc., and soon it was a staring contest. After a while the boy smiled, and then finally his blue eyes glanced away. When he looked back at me, I flicked my eyebrows up to say, 'I win'.  
He shrugged. Liam continued and then finally it was time for the introductions. "Niall, perhaps you'd like to go first today. I know you're facing a challenging time."  
"Yeah," Niall said. "I'm Niall. I'm seventeen. And it's looking like I have to get surgery in a couple weeks, after which I'll be blind. Not to complain or anything because I know a lot of us have it worse, but yeah, I mean, being blind does sort of suck. My girlfriend helps, though. And friends like Louis." He nodded toward the boy, who now had a name. "So, yeah," Niall continued. He was looking at his hands, which he'd folded into each other like the top of a tepee. "There's nothing you can do about it."  
"We're here for you, Niall," Liam said. "Let Niall hear it, guys." And then we all, in a monotone, said, "We're here for you, Niall."  
Michael was next. He was twelve. He had leukemia. He'd always had leukemia. He was okay. (Or so he said. He'd taken the elevator.)  
Lida was sixteen, and pretty enough to be the object of the hot boy's eye. She was a regular - in a long remission from appendiceal cancer, which I had not previously known existed. She said - as she had every other time I'd attended Support Group - that she felt strong, which felt like bragging to me as the oxygen-drizzling nubs tickled my nostrils.  
There were five others before they got to him. He smiled a little when his turn came. His voice was strangely high, feminine but masculine. "My name is Louis Tomlinson," he said. "I'm eighteen. I had a little touch of osteosarcoma a year and a half ago, but I'm just here today at Niall's request."  
"And how are you feeling?" asked Liam.  
"Oh, I'm grand." Louis Tomlinson smiled with crinkles by his eyes. "I'm on a roller coaster that only goes up, my friend."  
When it was my turn, I said, "My name is Harry. I'm sixteen. Thyroid with mets in my lungs. I'm okay."  
The hour proceeded apace: Fights were recounted, battles won amid wars sure to be lost; hope was clung to; families were both celebrated and denounced; it was agreed that friends just didn't get it; tears were shed; comfort proferred. Neither Louis Tomlinson nor I spoke again until Liam said, "Louis, perhaps you'd like to share your fears with the group."  
"My fears?"  
"Yes."  
"I fear oblivion," he said without a moment's pause. "I fear it like the proverbial blind man who's afraid of the dark."  
"Too soon," Niall said, cracking a smile.  
"Was that insensitive?" Louis asked. "I can be pretty blind to other people's feelings."  
Niall was laughing, but Liam raised a chastening finger and said, "Louis, please. Let's return to you and your struggles. You said you fear oblivion?"  
"I did," Louis answered.  
Liam seemed lost. "Would, uh ,would anyone like to speak to that?"  
I hadn't been in proper school in three years. My parents were my two best friends. My third best friend was an author who did not know I existed. I was a fairly shy person - not the hand-raising type.  
And yet, just this once, I decided to speak. I half raised my hand and Liam, his delight evident, immediately said, "Harry!" I was, I'm sure he assumed, opening up. Becoming Part Of The Group.  
I looked over at Louis Tomlinson, who looked back at me. You could almost see an ocean in his eyes they were so blue. "There will come a time," I said," when all of us are dead. All of us. There will come a time when there are no human beings remaining to remember that anyone ever existed or that our species ever did anything. There will be no one left to remember Aristotle or Cleopatra, let alone you. Everything that we did and built and wrote and gestured encompassingly - will have been for naught. Maybe that time is coming soon and maybe it is millions of years away, but even if we survive the collapse of our sun, we will not survive forever. There was time before organisms experienced consciousness, and there will be time after. And if the inevitability of human oblivion worries you, I encourage you to ignore it. God knows that's what everyone else does."  
I'd learned this from my aforementioned third best friend, Peter Van Houten, the reclusive author of 'An Imperial Affliction', the book that was as close a thing as I ha to a Bible. Peter Van Houten was the only person I'd ever come across who seemed to (a) understand what it's like to be dying, and (b) not have died.  
After I finished, there was quite a long period of silence as I watched a smile spread all the way across Louis' face - not the little crooked smile of the boy trying to be sexy while he stared at me, but his real smile, too big for his face. "Goddamn," Louis said quietly. "Aren't you something else."  
Neither of us said anything for the rest of Support Group. At the end, we all had to hold hands, and Liam led us in a prayer. "Lord Jesus Christ, we are gathered here in Your heart, literally in your heart, as cancer survivors. You and You alone know us as we know ourselves. Guide us to life and the Light through our times of trial. We pray for Niall's eyes, for Michael's and Jamie's blood, for Louis' bones, for Harry's lungs, for James's throat. We pray that You might heal us and that we might feel Your love, and Your peace, which passes all understanding. And we remember in our hearts those whom we knew and loved who have gone home to you: Maria and Kade and Joseph and Haley and Abigail and Angelina and Taylor and Gabriel and...."  
It was a long list. The world contains a lot of dead people. And while Liam droned on, reading the list from a sheet of paper because it was too long to memorize, I kept my eyes closed, trying to think prayerfully but mostly imagining the day when my name would find its way onto that list, all the way at the end when everyone had stopped listening.  
When Liam was finished, we said this stupid mantra together - LIVING OUR BEST LIFE TODAY - and it was over. Louis Tomlinson pushed himself out of his chair and walked over to me. His gait was crooked. I was slightly taller than him. "What's your name?" he asked.  
"Harry."  
"No, your full name."  
"Um, Harry Edward Styles." He was just about to say something else when Niall walked up. "Hold on," Louis said, raising a finger, and turned to Niall. "That was actually worse than you made it out to be."  
"I told you it was bleak."  
"Why do you bother with it?"  
"I don't know. It kind of helps?"  
Louis leaned in so he thought I couldn't hear. "He's a regular?" I couldn't hear Niall's comment, but Louis responded, "I'll say." He clasped Niall by both shoulders and then took a half step away from him. "Tell Harry about clinic."  
Niall leaned a hand against the snack table and focused his huge eye on me. "Okay, so I went into clinic this morning, and I was telling my surgeon that I'd rather be deaf than blind. And he said, 'It doesn't work that way,' and I was, like, 'Yeah, I realize it doesn't work that way; I'm just saying I'd rather be deaf than blind if I had the choice, which I realize I don't have,' and he said, 'Well, the good news is that you won't be deaf,' and I was like, 'Thank you for explaining that my eye cancer isn't going to make me deaf. I feel so fortunate that an intellectual giant like yourself would deign to operate on me.'"  
"He sounds like a winner," I said. "I'm gonna try to get me some eye cancer just so I can make this guy's acquaintance."  
"Good luck with that. All right, I should go. Monica's waiting for me. I gotta look at her a lot while I can."  
"Counterinsurgence tomorrow?" Louis asked.  
"Definitely." Niall turned and ran up the stairs, taking them two at a time.  
Louis Tomlinson turned to me. "Literally," he said.  
"Literally?" I asked.  
"We are literally in the heart of Jesus," he said. "I thought we were in a church basement, but we are literally in the heart of Jesus."  
"Someone should tell Jesus," I said. "I mean, it's gotta be dangerous storing children with cancer in your heart."  
"I would tell Him myself," Louis said, "but unfortunately I am literally stuck inside of His heart, so He won't be able to hear me." I laughed. He shook his head, just looking at me.  
"What?" I asked.  
"Nothing," he said.  
"Why are you looking at me like that?"  
Louis half smiled. "Because you're beautiful. I enjoy looking at beautiful people, and I decided a while ago not to deny myself the simpler pleasures of existence." A brief awkward silence ensued. Louis plowed through: "I mean, particularly given that, as you so deliciously pointed out, all of this will end in oblivion and everything."  
I kind of scoffed or sighed or exhaled in a way that was vaguely coughy and then said, "I'm not beau-"  
"You're like Heath Ledger. Like '10 Things I Hate About You' Heath Ledger."  
"Never seen it," I said.  
"Really?" he asked. "Curly-haired gorgeous boy dislikes authority and can't help but fall for another boy he knows is trouble. It's your autobiography, so far as I can tell."  
His every syllable flirted. Honestly, he kind of turned me on. I didn't even know that guys could turn me on - not, like, in real life.  
A younger girl walked past us. "How's it going, Alisa?" he asked. She smiled and mumbled, "Hi, Louis." "Memorial people," he explained. Memorial was the big research hospital. "Where do you go?"  
"Children's," I said, my voice smaller than I expected it to be. He nodded. The conversation seemed over. "Well," I said, nodding vaguely toward the steps that led us out of the Literal Heart of Jesus. I tilted my cart onto its wheels and started walking. He limped beside me. "So, see you next time, maybe?" I asked.  
"You should see it," he said. "'10 Things I Hate About You', I mean."  
"Okay," I said. "I'll look it up."  
"No. With me. At my house," he said. "Now."  
I stopped walking. "I hardly know you, Louis Tomlinson. You could be an ax murderer."  
He nodded. "True enough, Harry Edward." He walked past me, his shoulders filling out his denim jacket, his back straight, his steps lilting slightly to the right as he walked steady and confident on what I had determined was a prosthetic leg. Osteosarcoma sometimes takes a limb to check you out. Then, if it likes you, it takes the rest.  
I followed him upstairs, losing ground as I made my way up slowly, stairs not being a field of expertise for my lungs.  
And then we were out of Jesus's heart and in the parking lot, the spring air just on the cold side of perfect, the late-afternoon light heavenly in its hurtfulness.  
Mum wasn't there yet, which was unusual, because Mum was almost always waiting for me. I glanced around and saw that a tall, curvy brunette girl had Niall pinned against the stone wall of the church, kissing him rather aggressively. They were close enough to me that I could hear the weird noises of their mouths together, and I could hear him saying, "Always," and her saying, "Always," in return.  
Suddenly standing next to me, Louis half whispered, "They're big believers in PDA."  
"What's with the 'always'?" The slurping sounds intensified.  
"Always is their thing. They'll always love each other and whatever. I would conservatively estimate they have texted each other 'always' four million times in the last year."  
A couple more cars drove up, taking Michael and Alisa away. It was just Louis and me now, watching Niall and Monica, who proceeded apace as if they were not leaning against a place of worship. His hand reached for her boob over her shirt and pawed at it, his palm still while his fingers moved around. I wondered if that felt good. Didn't seem like it would, but I decided to forgive Niall on the grounds that he was going blind. The senses must feast while there is yet hunger and whatever.  
"Imagine taking that last drive to the hospital," I said quietly. "The last time you'll ever drive a car."  
Without looking over at me, Louis said, "You're killing my vibe here, Harry Edward. I'm trying to observe young love in its many-splendored awkwardness."  
"I think he's hurting her boob," I said.  
"Yes, it's difficult to ascertain whether he is trying to arouse her or perform a breast exam." Then Louis Tomlinson reached into a pocket and pulled out, of all things, a pack of cigarettes. He flipped it open and put a cigarette between his lips.  
"Are you serious?" I asked. "You think that's cool? Oh, my God, you just ruined the whole thing."  
"Which whole thing?" he asked, turning to me. The cigarette dangled unlit from the unsmiling corner of his mouth.  
"The whole thing where a boy is not unattractive or unintelligent or seemingly in any way unacceptable stares at me and points out incorrect uses of literality and compares me to actors and asks me to watch a movie at his house. But of course there is always a hamartia and yours is that oh, my God, even though you HAD FREAKING CANCER you give money to a company in exchange for the chance to acquire YET MORE CANCER. Oh, my God. Let me just assure you that not being able to breathe? SUCKS. Totally disappointing. Totally."  
"A hamartia?" he asked, the cigarette still in his mouth. It tightened his jaw. He had a hell of a jawline, unfortunately.  
"A fatal flaw," I explained, turning away from him. I stepped toward the curb, leaving Louis Tomlinson behind me, and then I heard a car start down the street. It was Mum. She'd been waiting for me to, like, make friends or whatever.  
I felt this weird mix of disappointment and anger welling up inside me. I don't even know what the feeling was, really, just that there was a lot of it, and I wanted to smack Louis Tomlinson and also replace my lungs with lungs that didn't suck at being lungs. I was standing on the very edge of the curb, the oxygen tank ball-and-chaining in the cart by my side, and right as my mum pulled up, I felt a hand grab mine.  
I yanked my hand free but turned back to him.  
"They don't kill you unless you light them," he said as Mum arrived at the curb. "And I've never lit one. It's a metaphor, see: You put the killing thing right between your teeth, but you don't give it the power to do its killing."  
"It's a metaphor," I said, dubious. Mum was just idling.  
"It's a metaphor," he said.  
"You choose your behaviors based on their metaphorical resonances...." I said.  
"Oh, yes." He smiled. The sweet, real smile. "I'm a big believer in metaphor, Harry Edward."  
I turned to the car. Tapped the window. It rolled down. "I'm going to a movie with Louis Tomlinson," I said. "Please record the next several episodes of the AHS marathon for me."


	2. Chapter Two

Louis Tomlinson drove horrifically. Whether stopping or starting, everything happened with a tremendous JOLT. I flew against the seat belt of his Toyota SUV each time he braked, and my neck snapped backward each time he hit the gas. I might have been nervous - what with sitting in the car of a strange boy on the way to his house, keenly aware that my crap lungs complicate efforts to fend off unwanted advances - but his driving was so astonishingly poor that I could think of nothing else.  
We'd gone perhaps a mile in jagged silence before Louis said, "I failed the driving test three times."  
"You don't say."  
He laughed, nodding. "Well, I can't feel pressure in old Prosty, and I can't get the hang of driving left-footed. My doctors say most amputees can drive with no problem, but....yeah. Not me. Anyway, I go in for my fourth driving test, and it goes about like this is going." A half mile in front of us, a light turned red. Louis slammed on the brakes, tossing me into the triangular embrace of the seat belt. "Sorry. I swear to God I am trying to be gentle. Right, so anyway, at the end of the test, I totally thought I'd failed again, but the instructor was like, "Your driving is unpleasant, but it isn't technically unsafe."  
"I'm not sure I agree," I said. "I suspect Cancer Perk." Cancer Perks are the little things cancer kids get that regular kids don't: basketballs signed by sports heroes, free passes on late homework, unearned driver's licenses, etc.  
"Yeah," he said. The light turned green. I braced myself. Louis slammed the gas.  
"You know they've got hand controls for people who can't use their legs," I pointed out.  
"Yeah," he said. "Maybe someday." He sighed in a way that made me wonder whether he was confident about the existence of someday. I knew osteosarcoma was highly curable, but still.  
There are a number of ways to establish someone's approximate survival expectations without actually asking. I used the classic: "So, are you in school?" Generally, your parents pull you out of school at some point if they expect you to bite it.  
"Yeah," he said. "I'm at North Central. A year behind, though: I'm a junior. You?"  
I considered lying. No one likes a corpse, after all. But in the end I told the truth. "No, my parents withdrew me three years ago."  
"Three years?" he asked, astonished.  
I told Louis the broad outline of my miracle: diagnosed with Stage IV thyroid cancer when I was thirteen. (I didn't tell him that the diagnosis came three months after I hit puberty. Like: Congratulations! You're a teenager. Now die.) It was, we were told, incurable.  
I had a surgery called radical neck dissection, which is about as pleasant as it sounds. Then radiation. Then they tried some chemo for my lung tumors. The tumors shrank, then grew. By then, I was fourteen. My lungs started to fill up with water. I was looking pretty dead - my hands and feet ballooned; my skin cracked; my lips were perpetually blue. They've got this drug that makes you not feel so completely terrified about the fact that you can't breathe, and I had a lot of it flowing into me through a PICC line, and more than a dozen other drugs besides. But even so, there's a certain unpleasantness to drowning, particularly when it occurs over the course of several months. I finally ended up in the ICU with pneumonia, and my mum knelt by the side of my bed and said, "Are you ready, love?" and I told her I was ready, and my dad just kept me telling me he loved me in this voice that was not breaking so much as already broken, and I kept telling him that I loved him, too, and everyone was holding hands, and I couldn't catch my breath, and my lungs were acting desperate, gasping, pulling me out of the bed trying to find a position that could get them air, and I was embarrassed by their desperation, disgusted that they wouldn't just let go, and I remember my mum telling me it was okay, that I was okay, that I would be okay, and my father was trying so hard not to sob that when he did, which was regularly, it was an earthquake. And I remember wanting not to be awake.  
Everyone figured I was finished, but my Cancer Doctor Maria managed to get some of the fluid out of my lungs, and shortly thereafter the antibiotics they'd given me for the pneumonia kicked in.  
I woke up and soon got into one of those experimental trials that are famous in the Republic of Cancervania for Not Working. The drug was Phalanxifor, this molecule designed to attach itself to cancer cells and slow their growth. It didn't work in about 70 percent of people. But it worked in me. The tumors shrank.  
And they stayed shrunk. Huzzah, Phalanxifor! In the past eighteen months, my mets have hardly grown, leaving me with lungs that suck at being lungs but could, conceivably, struggle along indefinitely with the assistance of drizzled oxygen and daily Phalanxifor.  
Admittedly, my Cancer Miracle had only resulted in a bit of purchased time. (I did not yet know the size of the bit.) But when telling Louis Tomlinson, I painted the rosiest possible picture, embellishing the miraculousness of the miracle.  
"So now you gotta go back to school" he said.  
"I actually can't," I explained, "because I already got my GED. So I'm taking classes at MCC," which was our community college.  
"A college boy," he said, nodding. "That explains the aura of sophistication." He smirked at me. I shoved his upper arm playfully. I could feel the muscle right beneath the skin, all tense and amazing.  
We made a wheels-screeching turn into a subdivision with eight-foot-high stucco walls. His house was the first one on the left. A two-story colonial. We jerked to a halt in his driveway.  
I followed him inside. A wooden plaque in the entryway was engraved in cursive with the words 'Home Is Where the Heart Is', and the entire house turned out to be festooned in such observations. 'Good Friends Are Hard to Find and Impossible to Forget' read an illustration above the coatrack. 'True Love Is Born from Hard Times' promised a needlepointed pillow in their antique-furnished living room. Louis saw me reading. "My parents call them Encouragements," he explained. "They're everywhere."

His mum and dad called him Lou. They were making enchiladas in the kitchen (a piece of stained glass by the sink read in bubbly letters 'Family Is Forever'). His mum was putting chicken into tortillas, which his dad then rolled up and placed in a glass pan. They didn't seem too surprised by my arrival, which made sense: The fact that Louis made me feel special did not necessarily indicate that I was special. Maybe he brought home a different guy or girl every night to show them movies and feel them up.  
"This is Harry Edward," he said, by way of introduction.  
"Just Harry," I said.  
"How's it going, Harry?" asked Louis's dad. He was about the same height as Louis, and skinny in a way that parentally aged people usually aren't.  
"Okay," I said.  
"How was Niall's Support Group?"  
"It was incredible," Lou said.  
"You're such a Debbie Downer," his mum said. "Harry, do you enjoy it?"  
I paused a second, trying to figure out if my response should be calibrated to please Louis or his parents. "Most of the people are really nice," I finally said.  
"That's exactly what we found with families at Memorial when we were in the thick of it with Lou's treatment," his dad said. "Everybody was so kind. Strong, too. In the darkest days, the Lord puts the best people into your life."  
"Quick, give me a throw pillow and some thread because that needs to be an Encouragement," Louis said, and his dad looked a little annoyed, but then Lou wrapped his arm around his dad's neck and said, "I'm just kidding, Dad. I like the freaking Encouragements. I really do. I just can't admit it because I'm a teenager." His dad rolled his eyes.  
"You're joining us for dinner, I hope?" asked his mum. She was small and brunette and vaguely mousy.  
"I guess?" I said. "I have to be home by ten. Also I don't, um, eat meat?"  
"No problem. We'll vegetarianize some," she said.  
"Animals are just too cute?" Lou asked.  
"I want to minimize the number of deaths I am responsible for," I said.  
Lou opened his mouth to respond but then stopped himself.  
His mum filled the silence. "Well, I think that's wonderful."  
They talked to me for a bit about how the enchiladas were Famous Tomlinson Enchiladas and Not to Be Missed and about how Lou's curfew was also ten, and how they were inherently distrustful of anyone who gave their kids curfews other than ten, and as I in school - "he's a college student," Louis interjected - and how the weather was truly and absolutely extraordinary for March, and how in spring all things are new, and they didn't even once ask me about the oxygen or my diagnosis, which was weird and wonderful, and then Louis said, "Harry and I are going to watch '10 Things I Hate About You' so he can see his filmic doppelganger, late nineteen-nineties Heath Ledger."  
"The living room is yours for the watching," his dad said happily.  
"I think we're actually gonna watch it in the basement."  
His dad laughed. "Good try. Living room."  
"But I want to show Harry Edward the basement," Louis said.  
"Just Harry," I said.  
"So show Just Harry the basement," said his dad. "And then come upstairs and watch your movie in the living room."  
Louis puffed out his cheeks, balanced on his leg, and twistes his hips, throwing the prosthetic forward. "Fine, he mumbled.  
I followed him down carpeted stairs to a huge basement bedroom. A shelf at my eye level reached all the way around the room, and it was stuffed solid with basketball memorabilia: dozens of trophies with gold plastic men mid-jump shot or dribbling or reaching for a layup toward an unseen basket. There were also lots of signed balls and sneakers.  
"I used to play basketball," he explained.  
"You must've been pretty good."  
"I wasn't bad, but all the shoes and balls are Cancer Perks." He walked toward the TV, where a huge pile of DVDs and video games were arranged into a vague pyramid shape. He bent at the waist and snatched up '10 Things I Hate About You'. "I was, like, the prototypical white Hoosier kid," he said. "I was all about resurrecting the lost art of the midrange jumper, but then one day I was shooting free throws - just standing at the foul line at the North Central gym shooting from a rack of balls. All at once, I couldn't figure out why I was methodically tossing a spherical object through a toroidal object. It seemed like the stupidest thing I could possibly be doing. I started thinking about little kids putting a cylindrical peg through a circular hole, and how they do it over and over again for months when they figure it out, and how basketball was basically just a slightly more aerobic version of that same exercise. Anyway, for the longest time, I just kept sinking free throws. I hit eighty in a row, my all-time best, but as I kept going, I felt more and more like a two-year-old. And then for some reason I started to think about hurdlers. Are you okay?"  
I'd taken a seat on the corner of his unmade bed. I wasn't trying to be suggestive or anything; I just got kind of tired when I had to stand a lot. I'd stood in the living room and then there had been the stairs, and then more standing, which was quite a lot of standing for me, and I didn't want to faint or anything. I was a bit of a Victorian, fainting-wise. "I'm fine," I said. "Just listening. Hurdlers?"  
"Yeah, hurdlers. I don't know why. I started thinking about them running their hurdle races, and jumping over these totally arbitrary objects that had been set in their path. And I wondered if hurdlers ever thought, you know, 'This would go faster if we just got rid of the hurdles.'"  
"This was right before your diagnosis?" I asked.  
"Right, well, there was that, too." He smiled with half his mouth. "The day of the existentially fraught free throws was coincidentally also my last day of dual leggedness. I had a weekend when they scheduled the amputation and when it happened. My own little glimpse of what Niall is going through."  
I nodded. I liked Louis Tomlinson. I really, really, really liked him. I liked the way his story ended with someone else. I liked his voice. I liked that he took 'existentially fraught' free throws. I liked that he was a tenured professor in the Department of Slightly Crooked Smiles with a dual appointment in the Department of Having a Voice That Made My Skin Feel More Like Skin. And I liked that he had two names. I've always liked people with two names, because you get to make up your mind what you call them: Lou or Louis? Me, I was always just Harry, univalent Harry.  
"Do you have siblings?" I asked.  
"Huh?" he answered, seeming a little distracted.  
"You said that thing about watching kids play."  
"Oh, yeah, no. I have nephews, from my half sisters. But they're older. They're like - DAD, HOW OLD ARE JULIE AND MARTHA?"  
"Twenty-eight!"  
"They're like twenty-eight. They live in Chicago. They are both married to very fancy lawyer dudes. Or banker dudes. I can't remember. You have siblings?"  
I shook my head no. "So what's your story?" he asked, sitting down next to me at a safe distance.  
"I already told you my story. I was diagnosed when -"  
"No, not your cancer story. Your story. Interests, hobbies, passions, weird fetishes, etcetera."  
"Um," I said.  
"Don't tell me you're one of those people who becomes their disease. I know so many people like that. It's disheartening. Like, cancer is in the growth business, right? The taking-people-over business. But surely you haven't let it succeed prematurely."  
It occurred to me that perhaps I had. I struggled with how to pitch myself to Louis Tomlinson, which enthusiams to embrace, and in the silence that followed it occurred to me that I wasn't very interesting. "I am pretty unextraordinary."  
"In reject that out of hand. Think of something you like. The first thing that comes to mind."  
"Um. Reading?"  
"What do you read?"  
"Everything. From, like, hideous romance to pretentious fiction to poetry. Whatever."  
"Do you write poetry, too?"  
"No. I don't write."  
"There!" Louis almost shouted. "Harry Edward, you are the only teenager in America who prefers reading poetry to writing it. This tells me so much. You read a lot of capital-G great books, don't you?"  
"I guess?"  
"What's your favorite?"  
"Um," I said.  
My favorite book, by a wide margin, was An Imperial Affliction, but I didn't like to tell people about it. Sometimes, you read a book and it fills you with this weird evangelical zeal, and you become convinced that the shattered world will never be put back together unless and until all living humans read the book. And then there are books like An Imperial Affliction, which you can't tell people about, books so special and rare and yours that advertising your affection feels like a betrayal.  
It wasn't even that the book was so good or anything; it was just that the author, Peter Van Houten, seemed to understand me in weird and impossible ways. An Imperial Affliction was my book, in the way my body was my body and my thoughts were my thoughts.  
Even so, I told Louis. "My favorite book is probably An Imperial Affliction," I said.  
"Does it feature zombies?" he asked.  
"No," I said.  
"Stormtroopers?"  
I shook my head. "It's not that kind of book."  
He smiled. "I am going to read this terrible book with the boring title that does not contain stormtroopers," he promised, and I immediately felt like I shouldn't have told him about it. Louis spun around to a stack of books beneath his bedside table. He grabbed a paperback and a pen. As he scribbled an inscription onto the title page, he said, "All I ask in exchange is that you read this brilliant and haunting novelization of my favorite video game." He held up the book, which was called The Price of Dawn. I laughed and took it. Our hands kind of got muddled together in the book handoff, and then he was holding my hand. "Cold," he said, pressing a finger to my pale wrist.  
"Not cold so much as underoxygenated," I said.  
"I love it when you talk medical to me," he said. He stood, and pulled me up with him, and did not let go of my hand until we reached the stairs.

 

We watched the movie with several inches of couch between us. I did the totally middle-schooly thing wherein I put my hand on the couch about halfway between us to let him know that it was okay to hold, but he didn't try. An hour into the movie, Louis's parents came in and served us the enchiladas, which we ate on the couch, and they were pretty delicious.  
The movie was about this girl named Kat Stratford, who basically falls for this bad boy named Patrick Verona, played by Heath Ledger, who's very hot and does not have anything approaching my puffy steroid face.  
As the credits rolled, he said, "Pretty great, huh?"  
"Pretty great," I agreed, which was true. So it was kind of a girly movie, but so what? I don't know why boys are expected to like boy movies. "I should get home. Class in the morning," I said.  
I sat on the couch for a while as Louis searched for his keys. His mum sat down next to me and said, "I just love this one, don't you?" I guess I had been looking toward the Encouragement above the TV, a drawing of an angel with the caption 'Without Pain, How Could We Know Joy'?  
(This is an old argument in the field of Thinking About Suffering, and its stupidity and lack of sophistication could be plumbed for centuries, but suffice it to say that the existence of broccoli does not in any way affect the taste of chocolate.) "Yes," I said. "A lovely thought."  
I drove Louis's car home with Louis riding shotgun. He played me a couple songs he liked by a band called The Hectic Glow, and they were good songs, but because I didn't know them already, they weren't as good to me as they were to him. I kept glancing over at his leg, or the place where his leg had been, trying to imagine what the fake leg looked like. I didn't want to care about it, but I did a little. He probably cared about my oxygen. Illness repulses. I'd learned that a long time ago, and I suspected Louis had, too.  
As I pulled up outside of my house, Louis clicked the radio off. The air thickened. He was probably thinking about kissing me, and I was definitely thinking about kissing him. Wondering if I wanted to. I'd kissed boys, but it had been a while. Pre-Miracle.  
I put the car in park and looked over at him. He really was beautiful.  
"Harry Edward," he said, my name new and better in his voice. "It has been a real pleasure to make your acquaintance."  
"Ditto, Mr. Tomlinson," I said. I felt shy looking at him. I could not match the intensity of his ocean blue eyes.  
"May I see you again?" he asked. There was an endearing nervousness in his voice.  
I smiled. "Sure."  
"Tomorrow?" he asked.  
"Patience, grasshopper," I counseled. "You don't want to seem overeager."  
"Right, that's why I said tomorrow," he said. "I want to see you again tonight. But I'm willing to wait all night and much of tomorrow." I rolled my eyes. "I'm serious," he said.  
"You don't even know me," I said. I grabbed the book from the center console. "How about I tell you when I finish this?"  
"But you don't even have my phone number," he said.  
"I strongly suspect you wrote it in the book."  
He broke out into that adorable smile. "And you say we don't know each other."


End file.
